


Stick (It) Up His Ass

by MaddyHughes



Series: Hannibal Lecter Takes It Up The Ass [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Hannibal, Drunken Confessions, Drunken sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Top Chilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 11:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: By popular demand: Dr Frederick Chilton fucks Hannibal Lecter up the ass.





	Stick (It) Up His Ass

It’s after dinner, and Frederick Chilton is drunk.

  
‘You know what’s your problem, Hannibal?’ he slurs, waving his dessert spoon at the other man (spoon licked clean of sanguinaccio dolce).

  
‘Pray tell,’ says Hannibal, who seems suspiciously sober, given the amount of wine they’ve consumed. Then again, since he lost his kidney, Frederick hasn’t been able to hold his booze like he used to.

  
‘You’ve got a stick up your ass.’ Chilton nods wisely. ‘So proper. So formal. All the time, never a hair out of place. Old world. Everyone’s charmed by you, but it’s true. You’ve got a stick so far up your ass that it’ll never be found.’

  
‘You’re welcome to look for it,’ says Hannibal mildly, pouring Chilton another half glass of muscadet.

  
‘Who, me? Thank you, but I don’t want to go peering up your ass.’ He accepts the wine and takes a large gulp. ‘I’d much rather fuck you in it.’

  
As soon as the words he’s just said hit Chilton’s own ears, he freezes in almost cartoon-like surprise.

  
_Damn._

  
‘Well,’ says Hannibal. ‘That’s quite the Freudian slip.’

  
There are words Chilton can say to deny what he’s just admitted. There are ways out of this social situation with grace and poise. Unfortunately Chilton can’t think of any of them. And the violent blush racing up his face betrays the fact that he may have just, unwittingly and drunkenly, spoken the truth.

  
Hannibal Lecter stands up and moves smoothly across the dining room towards Chilton. For a confused and terrifying moment, Frederick is certain that the other man, his professional colleague, is going to pick up a carving knife and skewer him through the neck.

  
But he doesn’t. Hannibal merely pauses at the sideboard, opens a small drawer, and takes something from it. Something that he then places on the table in front of Chilton.

  
To Frederick’s astonishment—and instant, almost painful arousal—it is a condom.

  
‘I don’t want any dishes to get knocked off the table,’ says Hannibal. ‘Shall we retire to the living room?’ And he does.

  
For a moment, Frederick can’t follow him. Disbelief and his burgeoning erection stop him from standing up from his chair. But then he gets up, grabs the table for support (whoops, the booze), finds his cane, picks up the condom and goes into the living room.

  
Hannibal is standing with his back to Frederick, in front of a sturdy Eames chair. He doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if the other man has come in; he merely unfastens his belt, pushes down his trousers and boxers and steps elegantly out of them. Shoes and socks still on. Chilton notices with curiosity and more than a little sexual and sartorial excitement that Hannibal wears sock garters.

  
Nonchalantly, Hannibal reaches behind himself and folds his shirt and the bottom of his jacket out of the way to expose the pale, muscular cheeks of his ass. He bends over the chair, legs apart.

  
‘Be my guest,’ says Hannibal. ‘A little after-dinner treat.’

  
He’d never admit it, but it’s been quite a long time for Frederick. He hasn’t had an offer like this since medical school. And even then, it was a fellow first-year student with pimples on his scrawny buttocks. Whereas Hannibal Lecter is…

  
‘Fuck,’ says Chilton, meaning more accurately, _I’m fucked,_ but he shucks off his own shoes and pants and underwear and garterless socks, and his jacket and tie and shirt for good measure, and tears open the condom with trembling hands.

  
‘Do you—do you have any lube?’ Chilton manages.

  
‘Surely you have a little spit to spare,’ Hannibal says, voice slightly muffled by the fact that he’s speaking into the back of the Eames chair.

  
Chilton’s knees are weak. He groans and drops to his knees and buries his face in Hannibal’s ass.

  
He has plenty of spit to spare. His mouth is watering. He tongues Hannibal’s asshole and it tastes delicious, far more delicious than an asshole should ever taste, probably because the man dines on nectar and ambrosia or something equally rarefied. It’s clean and sweet, with a undertone of meat—more than a little reminiscent of the blood chocolate they had for dessert. But Chilton is trembling, ridiculously eager, cock leaking inside the condom, so he doesn’t linger. He pushes saliva into Hannibal’s muscular hole with his tongue, spits and spreads, and then stands up and takes his own cock in his hand.

  
From this angle he can’t see whether Hannibal is aroused or not. He doesn’t much care, frankly; he wants to fuck, wants it with a drunken single-mindedness that means he’s ruled by the desires of his dick, and his dick wants to push right into that hot, wet hole.

  
So he does. He positions himself and pushes in. His cock slips in so easily it almost feels like an insult. But it feels so good: hot and tight, framed by those muscular buttocks.

  
Chilton moans loudly with the pleasure of it, and thrusts in right to the hilt. Hannibal doesn’t so much as grunt.

  
Eagerness has always been one of Chilton’s faults: eagerness and ambition. Hannibal Lecter has such a spotless _reputation_. And this is wonderful, so wonderful, fucking this highly-regarded psychiatrist, this therapist with his ‘unorthodox methods’, who quite often looks down on Chilton’s own methods. Fucking him right up the ass. Pounding him hard, degrading him, showing him who’s the master.

  
He considers slapping Hannibal on one perfect butt cheek. But he doesn’t quite dare.

  
Because Hannibal isn’t groaning or sweating or heaving, or begging him to go faster or slower or to have mercy. He’s just…taking it. Holding on lightly to the sturdy chair, barely moving with Chilton’s thrusts. Stoic.

  
Almost…superior.

  
Chilton can’t see his face, only the back of his head. And as Chilton fucks, faster now because he’s drunk, because it feels so good, because he’s losing control, a small part of Frederick’s mind wonders what expression is on Hannibal Lecter’s face.

  
As he thrusts harder, panting and moaning and grunting like a rutting animal, unable to contain himself, knowing he’s about to come even though it hasn’t been long, Chilton is suddenly absolutely certain that Hannibal Lecter is looking _smug._

  
Then he comes with a guttural yell, overbalances on his bad leg, and has to grab Hannibal’s ass to keep from falling over.

  
‘Are you all right, Frederick?’ asks Hannibal, the first noise he has made since suggesting that Chilton rim him.

  
‘Yes, I—’ He steadies himself and lets go of Hannibal. He’s out of breath, sweating. His rapidly-softening cock pops out of Hannibal with a pathetic wet sound.

  
He’s suddenly conscious of his ugly belly scars, his skinny legs. He pulls off the condom and wonders how he can dispose of it at the same time as putting his clothes back on so Hannibal won’t see him naked when he turns around.

  
But Hannibal doesn’t turn around. He appears not to have moved at all.

  
‘Well,’ Hannibal says. ‘That was interesting, wasn’t it?’

  
Chilton reaches for his shirt and his briefs. ‘Hannibal…I think…I think it’s best if we don’t mention this again.’

  
‘Did you find a stick while you were up there? Or perhaps did you not go far enough?’

  
Frederick is buttoning his shirt, pulling on his trousers, shoving his feet in his shoes. He’s trying to understand the exact moment when Hannibal Lecter became the one with all the control in this little situation, when Hannibal turned the power dynamics on their head.

  
It’s a sickening realisation to understand that the dynamics were never turned on their head. Hannibal Lecter had the power all along.

  
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ says Chilton.

  
Hannibal straightens, then. He flips his shirt and jacket down to cover himself, and he turns around. Even without his trousers, he hasn’t a hair out of place.

  
‘I’ve called you a cab,’ he tells Chilton. ‘It should be waiting outside. Thank you so much, for being my guest.’

  
Chilton is in such a fluster to put on the rest of his clothes and escape that it’s only when he’s in front of his house and he reaches in his pocket for his wallet to pay the cab driver, that he finds the used and leaking condom stuffed into his pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> **This is number two in a collection of mini-fics about Hannibal Lecter taking it up the ass. Suggestions for future fics welcome and indeed, encouraged.**
> 
> @TouchMyStaff has made a beautifully dramatic fan art of this fic that you can see [here.](https://twitter.com/LegoHannibal/status/969710938961137669)


End file.
